‘See! In every nook and corner there are beehive activities!’
The riches evoked by Baboo Nob Kissin’s words cast a new light on the bazar: Zachary’s pulse quickened at the thought that fortunes could be made and lost in this dirty little alley. Through the odour of dust and dung he recalled the perfumed scents of Mrs Burnham’s boudoir. So this was the mud in which such luxuries were rooted? The idea was strangely arousing.
‘You see the men who are sitting there?’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, pointing at the stalls. ‘They are shroffs — brokers. From all over India they have come. Many are from far-away places — Baroda, Jodhpur, Mathura, Jhunjhunu. All are lakhaires. Some are millionaires and some are even crore-patters. So much money they have, they can buy twenty ships like Ibis.’
Zachary looked at the shroffs with renewed interest: their clothing seemed to be of the simplest cotton and there was nothing of any expense on their persons, apart from a sprinkling of gold jewellery — mainly studs in the ears, and neck-chains. Elsewhere in the city these men would scarcely have attracted a second glance. But here, enthroned upon their counters, with their solemn, unsmiling faces, they exuded a gnomic aura of authority.
Soon it became clear that Baboo Nob Kissin was intimately familiar with the sellers and their procedures. Zachary watched carefully as he went up to one of the counters to greet the proprietor.
Now began a curious charade: without saying a word aloud, both men began to make rapid gestures with their hands and fingers. All of a sudden, the Baboo thrust his hands under the shawl that lay draped over the broker’s lap. The shawl began to bounce and writhe as their hidden fingers twined with each other, twisting and turning in a secret dance. Gradually these motions built to a climax and a shudder of understanding passed through both of them; then their hands fell inert under the shawl and they exchanged a quiet smile.
Hardly a word had been said all this while, but when Baboo Nob Kissin stepped away the broker bent quickly over his ledger and began to make rapid notations with a pencil.
It was through hand-language, Baboo Nob Kissin explained, that most transactions were done in this market; that way others did not know what was being purchased and at what price.
To Zachary’s surprise it turned out that Baboo Nob Kissin had placed his money in tazi-chitties: the cost of a chest of the best Benares opium had fallen to nine hundred rupees at the last auction and the general feeling in the marketplace was that it would fall still further because of the troubles in China. Baboo Nob Kissin, on the other hand, was sure that there would be a modest rebound in the price.
Zachary took alarm when he realized that his savings had been wagered on an outside chance. ‘But Baboo,’ he protested, ‘you just told me the market was flooded with opium. Doesn’t that mean the price will go down?’
Baboo Nob Kissin put a finger to his lips. ‘Never mind, dear — it is just an eyewash. No need for you to take up tensions. Just only trust me.’
That night Zachary experienced spasms of anticipation that were no less intense than those that had seized him before his assignations with Mrs Burnham. It was as if the money that she had given him had suddenly taken on a new life: her coins were out there in the world, forging their own destiny, making secret assignations, colliding with others of their kind — seducing, buying, spending, breeding, multiplying.
The next day Zachary and Baboo Nob Kissin arrived early at the Opium Exchange, but only to find bailiffs at the door, holding back a large and noisy group of men. Baboo Nob Kissin had nothing but contempt for this crowd — ‘Just only riff-raffs!’ — these men were but messengers and runners, he said, waiting to relay the outcome of the auction to speculators across the country. He led Zachary through the throng, to the entrance, where he was recognized by the stern-looking bailiffs who were standing guard. They waved him through to the building’s capacious lobby, with Zachary following at his heels.
The auction room was on the second floor, Baboo Nob Kissin explained, and only ticket-holders were allowed to enter. This was a highly privileged group: a ticket to Calcutta’s opium auctions was the most valuable asset that any trader could acquire, anywhere in the world, and businessmen from many countries competed fiercely for them.
Although Baboo Nob Kissin was not a ticket-holder himself he was permitted, as Mr Burnham’s gomusta, to observe the auction from a small gallery above the room: this was where he led Zachary.
The gallery was like a box in a theatre: it projected over the auction room and was fenced off by brass rails. Leaning over the rails, Zachary saw that the room was merely a large hall with several rows of chairs laid out in neat rows, facing in the direction of an auctioneer’s lectern. A ceremonial armchair stood beside the lectern: this was the seat of the director who presided over the proceedings. On the wall behind hung an enormous velvet curtain imprinted with the seal of the East India Company.
Mr Burnham’s commanding figure was prominently visible in the auction room: he was seated in the front row dressed in a suit of sombre colour, with his glossy beard flowing down his chest. In the rows behind were some of the city’s most prominent personalities, among them several scions of Bengal’s grandest families — Tagores, Mullicks and Dutts. There were also Parsis from Bombay, and Marwaris and Jains from the distant villages and market-towns of Rajputana and Gujarat. As for the rest, they were as variegated a gathering as the crew of a transoceanic ship: Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Persians, Jews, Pathans, Bohras, Khojas and Memons. Looking down from above it seemed to Zachary that he had never seen such a profusion of headgear: turbans and astrakhans, calpacs and a varied assortment of prayer caps — Muslim and Jewish, embroidered and lacy, colourful and plain.
A hush fell when the director and the auctioneer walked solemnly up the aisle and took their places at the head of the room. The proceedings began after a brief prayer for the health of Queen Victoria: the auctioneer held up a board with a number and immediately hands shot up, signalling in an unintelligible semaphore.
The opium would be sold in lots of five chests each, Baboo Nob Kissin explained; the bidders would purchase them sight unseen — a chest of the East India Company’s opium was as sound as any currency note, and no inspections were permitted or expected. Bidders were required to cover only ten per cent of their purchase; they were allowed a full thirty days to make good on the rest.
As the auction proceeded the bidders’ enthusiasm began to build. Even though Zachary couldn’t quite follow what was going on, he soon found himself caught up in the excitement. There was something wild about the way the men were bidding, jumping up and down, waving their hands and shouting: it reminded him of a mêlée in a tavern — even the smell was similar, a rancid brew of sweat, fear and ambition.
The fiercest of the bidders was none other than Mr Burnham himself: every few minutes he would jump up, shouting, waving, holding up fingers. The sight excited Zachary’s envy as well as his awe. He would have given anything to be down there himself, bidding like Mr Burnham, snatching away the lots he most desired from under the noses of his competitors.
This was one of the most thrilling spectacles Zachary had ever witnessed. That he was merely a spectator, watching from the gallery, made him seethe: he swore to himself that he too would be a ticket-holder one day; this was where he belonged; there was nothing he wanted more than to be a player, lavishing his unspent energies upon the pursuit of wealth.